


by the horns

by WingsOfTime



Series: rakey boi <3 [3]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Minor Drug Use, Multi, Racism, not really graphic violence but better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: The Watcher isn't used to godlike being revered. Unfortunately, he doesn't have timetoget used to it.





	by the horns

Breathe. _In_ , draw. _Out_ , release. The nearly silent _fwip_ of the arrow cutting through the air, the faint impact of the bowstring on his vambrace. Movements, remembered sensations that Rake has done a hundred million times, repeated, repeated, repeated.

Faster, now. One of the—bandits? They attacked on sight, so Rake doesn’t know—swings at Edér, who ducks underneath his shield. Rake adjusts his aim, lets loose an arrow an inch away from his head. Aloth is going to take a hit—he’s got his nose buried in his grimoire as he chants something far too complicated for Rake to ever have hope of understanding.

“Aloth,” Rake calls, not to him but about him. Tekēhu dutifully steps in, towering over wizard and bandit both, and bludgeons the latter’s head with his staff.

“Unorthodox, but Ekera, it is efficient,” he comments. He shrugs, loosening his shoulders and rolling his neck. Aloth finishes his incantation, and the enemy mage erupts into flame.

“Alright, that all of ‘em?” Edér looks around, checking for any enemies they might have missed beating into a bloody (or flaming) pulp. Finding none, he sheaths his sabre.

“I wonder what they wanted.” Aloth closes his grimoire, sliding its band into place. He frowns. “Or who sent them.”

“Uh, d’you mean after us or down here?” Edér scratches the back of his head, apparently mindless of the blood on his hands. “Because I think I don’t really like the idea of someone sending people after us.”

“If you ‘think’ that, I can’t imagine what you’re capable of being certain of.” Aloth half-rolls his eyes to the shadowed heights of the Old City. Mid-sigh, his face contorts into a grimace.

“Dinnae pay heed tae the lad, he’s just pissant he’s git geck in ’is britches.” Iselmyr wrinkles Aloth’s nose. Rake is too afraid to ask what “geck” means.

“Ekera, I think we have all spent too much time in this dark place,” Tekēhu agrees. “I look forward to the gentle caress of the sun’s radiance ere we return to the surface.” He lifts his face and closes his eyes, as if picturing the loving reunion. For a moment, Rake can swear his tentacles glow brighter.

“We’re close,” he reminds them, beginning to finally put his own bow away. He pauses as he looks his companions over, doing a quick headcount, then frowns. “Hey, where’s—”

He’s cut off by the cold press of steel against his throat, sudden and deadly. He swallows. The blade bites into his skin, a single droplet of blood painting a thin red line across the metal.

Aloth, Edér, and Tekēhu immediately begin to reach for their weapons. A low, harsh, “Ah ah ah,” and a rough yank on Rake’s horns stops them short, however. Rake hears a deep chuckle, followed by the feeling of the knife pressing closer against his bared throat.

“‘Get the freak with the horns,’ I said, and they couldn’t even manage that.” His mystery attacker tsks. “But I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind me. All of you drop your weapons real slow, or the freak’s head leaves its body, clear?”

His companions are clearly hesitant to obey, but they’re not the ones who can feel death cold and heavy against their skin. Rake can barely manage to gasp out, “ _Do as he says.”_ His throat is suddenly tight with the echoes of a terror he’s tried his best to forget.

He can hear a distant, familiar whine. Ichabod had always been an extra layer of safety, a threat enough to anyone who would hassle a godlike that they might rethink it. But he is not _here_ here unless Rake calls him, and he doesn’t know whether that is worth risking his life.

“Listen to it,” his attacker says, in a voice as smooth as silk. It is hard to see in the dark, but Rake thinks Tekēhu’s face tightens. “Its life depends on your cooperation. Be nice and no one gets hurt.”

 _He’s lying,_ a small, panicked voice in Rake’s mind that never quite died cries out. _As soon as you’re alone, he’s going to chop you up and hang you on his wall. Who knows how many godlike he’s gotten this way?_

Slowly, reluctantly, his companions lower their weapons to the ground, and upon further prompting, kick them over. His attacker laughs. To Rake’s horror, he begins to slowly walk them backwards, and Rake is powerless to do anything but stumble along. He stares wide-eyed at his companions, silently begging them to do—something— _anything!_ They’ll help him, right? That’s what—that’s what friends are for.

But they… aren’t doing anything. The realization sends a spike of irrational panic through his heart. Oh gods, why aren’t they doing anything?

 _You know why,_ accuses the voice in his head. Rake tells it to shut up, but doubt is something he can never silence, and it forges ahead, fueled by his fear. _You knew not to trust them. You’re better off alone. Without Ichabod, there is no one. No one._

Rake closes his eyes. Calm is just thoughts that are words that lie, and relationships with other people only work so long as they think the balance is tipped to reward them. He knows this. He _knows_ this. He opens his eyes.

Does he?

“Help me,” he pleads hoarsely.

His gaze locks onto Aloth’s first. He looks… stricken. As Rake watches, his expression morphs into one of barely-controlled fury. Rake has never seen Aloth look like that.

Technically, he still hasn’t.

“Right doan cattyfucked, ye’ll be, ye thrice-fucked bastard,” Iselmyr spits. Her tone shifts, dips somewhat. “Ye stay right there, Rakey. Isnae anythin’ happening tae ye.”

The knife pressed to Rake’s throat erupts into sudden scorching, blazing pain, and he cries out, instinctively trying to wrench himself away. He can’t, of course. It’s all he can do not to scream as the knife burns his skin, flames licking along the blade.

Then a lot of things happen all at once.

Someone yells his name. It sounds like Edér, maybe, but Rake’s mind is still _fire_ and _pain_ and _fear_ and he cannot be certain. He hears a sickening _slich_ and the unmistakable sound of something slicing clean through bone, and then the pressure at his back suddenly loosens and drops. The knife falls away. Rake is staggering forwards before he has time to think, clutching at his throat.

He looks back instinctively, eyes wide, to see Rekke violently spear his attacker with his sabre, a wordless snarl twisting his scar. His other blade is stained scarlet, and underneath the blood dripping from its tip rolls a hooded, disembodied head.

“Ke riviti mani su rakega,” Rekke growls, giving the body a derisive kick. He spits on it.

Then he looks up, and his eyes light on Rake’s. “My friend!” he exclaims, almost cheerfully. He strides forwards, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Took you long enough,” Rake rasps, moving his hand over Rekke’s to clutch at it. He is relieved that the words come out dry, but without damage. Thank the gods.

“Rake!” Edér is pushing past the rest of the party—who are beginning to congregate around him like four mostly-unarmed, emotionally stunted dogs. “Rake, buddy, are you okay? Shit, your neck—someone… Tekēhu!”

“I am right here. Do not crowd, I say—let the artist do his work.” Tekēhu holds up a hand with a pointedly furrowed brow, and the rest of them shuffle back. Satisfied, he nods and turns his attention to Rake. Scaled fingers—surprisingly soft for their texture—gently tip his chin up, and Tekēhu hums low in his throat as he surveys the damage. It is not too bad, Rake knows, but his care is still appreciated.

“Wh—whyever are you scowling like that? You can heal it, right?” Aloth’s voice pitches higher and higher as he speaks. Rake frowns. Does it really look that bad?

“Indeed, I can.” Surely enough, Rake feels the coolness of both water and healing magic soothing his burn. He lets his eyes drift close, welcoming the relief from the itchy pain.

“I simply do not welcome the thought of my captain nearly perishing on a mercenary’s blade, is all.” Tekēhu’s tone is flat. “Forgive me for being so expressive about it.”

They really have been down here for too long if even Tekēhu is snippy. “Wasn’t a mercenary,” Rake mumbles, trying not to speak too loudly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he is suddenly exhausted. He leans back into Rekke, sighing as locks of coppery hair gently tickle the side of his face.

Tekēhu’s pause at his words is almost audible, poignant as it is. His healing magic continues to lap, slow and steady, but when Rake opens his eyes, his head is tilted, brow furrowed.

Rake sighs. They’ll have to have this uncomfortable conversation, then.

“Bounty hunter,” he explains. His gaze flicks off to the side before meeting Tekēhu’s. “You hear about them, if you’re not, uh, worshipped in a city your whole life, I guess. Even ran into a few, on occasion. They take our heads, stuff them, and make them part of their living rooms.”

There’s no question as to what he means by “our.” Tekēhu blinks rapidly, looking stunned for a moment before he recovers.

“I say, that is… quite horrific,” he says quietly (well, quiet for him). “I am glad friend Rekke severed his head before he could sever yours, then.”

“That makes two of us,” Rake agrees. Rekke pets his hair in solidarity.

“Ekera, I had no idea…” Tekēhu frowns to himself, apparently still struck by the idea. Whatever he is going to say gets lost in his thoughts.

Aloth, who has been gnawing on his knuckle with a distracted fervour, waves him aside, since he appears to have healed what he can. He gently takes Rake by the shoulders, looking him over.

“You… never answered Rekke’s question. Are you alright?” He looks concerned.

It is strange that such an expressive person considers himself so inscrutable, Rake muses. At the very least, he’s always expressive when he’s with _Rake_. Ha ha.

“Your worry is very cute,” Rake says to tease him. He grins when he sees the tips of Aloth’s ears go red. “But yeah, I’m fine! Fine, fine. No, Edér, I don’t want your pipe.”

Edér waggles both his eyebrows and his pipe. Suggestively. “You sure?”

Rake tilts his head. Considers.

“And we’re back to our regularly-scheduled idiocy,” Aloth mutters as Rake coughs on a lungful of sweet smoke.

“Yes!” Rekke whoops, clapping Aloth on the back so hard he wheezes and doubles over. “Drug time! Save some for me, ta?”

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> this probably happens right


End file.
